Chapter 200: 200 The New Neighbourhood

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200: The New Neighbourhood 200: The New Neighbourhood Six months had passed since Mishka Classens officially became the Covenant’s liaison for supernatural-human integration, and Eldergrove had transformed from a simple gated community into something unprecedented: a fully integrated supernatural residential enclave disguised as an exclusive Toronto suburb.

The morning sun caught the dew on perfectly manicured lawns where million-dollar homes housed some of the city’s most influential residents—and some of its most carefully hidden secrets.

Mishka stood on the wraparound porch of her new Victorian-style home, coffee in hand, watching her neighbors begin their carefully choreographed day.

To any outside observer, Eldergrove looked like any other wealthy enclave: professionals heading to their luxury cars, children being driven to private schools, gardeners tending to elaborate landscaping.

But Mishka’s enhanced Siren senses caught the subtle details that revealed the truth.

Mrs.

Pemberton from the Tudor mansion across the street was indeed tending her prize-winning roses—but her whispered words were ancient incantations that made the blooms glow with unnatural vitality.

Dr.

Harrison, the renowned neurosurgeon, shifted almost imperceptibly as he walked to his Tesla, his gait suggesting joints that could dislocate and reform at will.

And the “landscape crew” working on the community’s central garden moved with the precise coordination of a pack, their enhanced senses constantly monitoring for threats.

“Quite a view from up here,” Bruce said, joining her with his own cup of tea.

Even at seven in the morning, he looked impeccably dressed in a way that spoke of both wealth and careful attention to image.

His fashion design business had flourished since the Netflix documentary brought positive attention to supernatural artisans, and Eldergrove’s wealthy residents had proven to be excellent clients for someone who understood the unique needs of shapeshifter fashion.

“It’s like living in the most expensive theater production ever mounted,” Mishka replied, watching as councilwoman Margaret Chen—Director Chen’s cousin and one of Eldergrove’s most influential residents—emerged from her modernist glass house in a power suit that probably cost more than most people’s cars.

“Everyone playing their roles perfectly.”

The irony wasn’t lost on her.

She’d moved to Eldergrove to escape the jealous werewolf Jean, whose obsession with Bruce had escalated from stalking to outright threats after the documentary aired.

But in seeking safety among the wealthy and powerful, Mishka had discovered a world where supernatural abilities were just another form of privilege to be carefully managed and tastefully concealed.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Gillian, who had moved into a charming carriage house on the Eldergrove grounds and had appointed herself as Mishka’s assistant and supernatural community manager: Morning briefing in twenty minutes.

Three new residents moving in today, and Mrs.

Callahan wants to discuss the Henderson situation.

“The Henderson situation?” Bruce asked, reading over her shoulder—a habit that would have been intrusive from anyone else but felt natural after their year and a half together.

“The family in the Colonial at the end of Maple Lane,” Mishka explained.

“Their teenage daughter Emma started showing signs last week.

Mrs.

Callahan thinks she’s manifesting witch abilities, but the parents are convinced she’s just going through a normal rebellious phase.”

“Even after she turned her math homework into butterflies?”

“Especially after that.

They’re investment bankers, Bruce.

Their idea of magic is compound interest.”

Bruce chuckled, but Mishka could see the concern in his eyes.

One of Eldergrove’s unspoken rules was that residents either knew about and accepted their supernatural neighbors, or they belonged to supernatural families themselves.

Humans who stumbled onto the community’s secrets accidentally were gently relocated with their memories carefully adjusted.

But the Hendersons had been vetted and approved—their failure to recognize their daughter’s emerging abilities suggested either a spectacular oversight in the screening process, or something more complicated.

Mishka’s enhanced hearing caught the sound of a car engine that was too quiet for its size—Julian’s hybrid vehicle, modified with soundproofing for his security patrols.

He’d been making more rounds lately, ever since they’d received word that Jean had been spotted in Montreal, asking questions about Eldergrove’s location and resident list.

“I should get ready for the briefing,” Mishka said, though she lingered on the porch.

There was something peaceful about the morning routine of Eldergrove, the careful ballet of supernatural beings maintaining their wealthy human facades.

It felt like the calm before a storm, and her Siren instincts had been humming with unease for days.

“Mishka,” Bruce said softly, his hand finding hers.

“Are you sure you’re not just picking up on normal anxiety?

New residents, the Henderson situation, Jean’s threats—it’s a lot to manage even without supernatural intuition.”

She considered his words.

Bruce was right that she’d been under increasing pressure.

The Covenant work was rewarding but demanding, requiring her to travel to other communities while maintaining her role as Eldergrove’s resident Siren.

The documentary’s success had brought positive attention but also scrutiny from groups who preferred supernatural communities to remain hidden.

And Jean’s escalating obsession had forced them all to live with heightened security measures that turned their sanctuary into something resembling a beautiful prison.

“Maybe,” she admitted.

“But something feels different today.

Like we’re all waiting for something to happen.”

As if summoned by her words, Milla came jogging up the tree-lined street, her morning run apparently doubling as reconnaissance.

She’d graduated from filming documentaries to working as Eldergrove’s unofficial social media manager, crafting a carefully curated online presence that showcased the community’s artistic achievements while concealing its supernatural nature.

“Miss Mishka!” Milla called out, her ponytail bouncing as she bounded up the porch steps.

“You need to see this.

Someone’s been posting about Eldergrove on supernatural forums.

Not friendly posts.”

She thrust her phone toward Mishka, displaying a message thread that made her blood run cold:

Looking for information about Toronto gated community harboring rogue Siren.

Substantial reward for resident list and security protocols.

Contact J.R.

for details.

“J.R.?” Bruce asked grimly.

“Jean Rousseau,” Mishka said, her voice tight with worry.

“She’s not just stalking me anymore.

She’s recruiting.”

The peaceful morning suddenly felt fragile, like a soap bubble about to burst.

Mishka could see the careful choreography of Eldergrove continuing around them—supernatural beings pretending to be merely wealthy humans—but now she noticed the subtle signs of alertness that suggested she wasn’t the only one who’d felt the approaching storm.

Mrs.

Pemberton had stopped her rose gardening to scan the street with eyes that glowed faintly silver.

Dr.

Harrison was taking an unusually long time to get into his car, his enhanced hearing clearly monitoring for unusual sounds.

Even the landscape crew had shifted their positions to provide better coverage of the community’s main entrances.

“We need to call an emergency council meeting,” Mishka decided.

“If Jean’s recruiting allies, everyone needs to know.”

“Already handled,” came Mrs.

Callahan’s voice from the sidewalk below.

The elderly woman approached with her characteristic grace, but Mishka could see the tension in her posture.

“Celeste is coordinating with the other family heads.

Meeting at noon in the community center.”

“What about the new residents moving in today?” Bruce asked.

Mrs.

Callahan’s expression grew complicated.

“That’s…

part of what we need to discuss.

One of the families moving in today isn’t exactly what they seem to be.

And I suspect their arrival is connected to Jean’s sudden interest in our resident list.”

Mishka felt her Siren voice humming with agitation, harmonics of warning that made her neighbors’ supernatural senses prick with alertness.

The careful facade of wealthy normalcy was starting to crack, revealing the predatory awareness beneath.

“Mrs.

Callahan,” she said carefully, “exactly what kind of family is moving in today?”

The older woman’s smile was sharp enough to cut glass.

“The kind that specializes in hunting Sirens, dear.

And they’ve just bought the house directly across from yours.”

As if choreographed, every supernatural resident within hearing distance paused in their morning routines, their enhanced senses focusing on the conversation happening on Mishka’s porch.

The peaceful morning had officially ended.

The war for Eldergrove was about to begin.

By ten o’clock, the moving trucks had arrived.

Mishka watched from her kitchen window as professional movers unloaded furniture that screamed old money and older secrets.

Antique armoires that hummed with protective wards, bookshelves filled with volumes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, and mirrors wrapped in black silk that made her Siren instincts recoil with instinctive warning.

“Witch hunters,” Bruce said grimly, joining her at the window with fresh coffee.

He’d changed into one of his more formal designs—a subtle signal to other community residents that this was a situation requiring careful presentation.

“Those mirrors are scrying shields.

The books are probably grimoires focused on supernatural tracking and binding.”

“And they’re moving in directly across from us,” Mishka observed, watching as a tall woman with steel-gray hair supervised the movers with military precision.

“That’s not a coincidence.”

The woman—who had introduced herself to the gatehouse security as Victoria Blackthorne—moved with the contained energy of someone accustomed to command.

Her expensive clothing couldn’t quite hide the fact that she wore multiple amulets beneath her silk blouse, and her sharp eyes had already catalogued every supernatural resident who’d found excuses to walk past her new property.

“Mrs.

Blackthorne brought quite an entourage,” Gillian observed, appearing in the kitchen with her tablet and a expression of barely contained anxiety.

She’d been monitoring social media and supernatural forums since dawn, tracking the digital footprints of their new neighbors.

“Husband Richard, teenage son Marcus, and a live-in housekeeper named Agnes who has zero online presence before six months ago.”

“Meaning Agnes is probably their supernatural specialist,” Bruce translated.

“Someone with the skills to identify and counter various supernatural abilities.”

Mishka’s phone buzzed with an urgent text from Julian: Emergency.

Emma Henderson situation escalating.

Need you at their house now.

“The Henderson girl?” Bruce asked, reading over her shoulder again.

“Perfect timing,” Mishka said sarcastically.

“A supernatural crisis right when our new Siren-hunting neighbors are settling in.”

They made their way through Eldergrove’s winding streets, past houses that looked like architectural magazine spreads but hummed with carefully concealed power.

The community had been designed by supernatural architects who understood the need to hide enhanced security systems behind facades of wealthy normalcy.

Motion sensors disguised as decorative garden elements, reinforced windows that looked like ordinary glass, and communication networks that operated on frequencies only supernatural hearing could detect.

The Henderson house stood at the end of Maple Lane, a stately Colonial that should have radiated the same peaceful prosperity as its neighbors.

Instead, it practically vibrated with barely contained magical energy.

The perfectly manicured lawn was dotted with patches of wildflowers that had sprung up overnight, and the ornate iron fence was covered in flowering vines that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday.

Julian met them at the front gate, his security uniform immaculate but his expression tense.

“It started about an hour ago,” he reported quietly.

“Emma’s parents are in complete denial.

They’ve called in a psychiatrist, convinced she’s having some kind of breakdown.”

Through the house’s tall windows, Mishka could see a teenage girl with dark curls gesticulating wildly at her parents while books flew around the living room in carefully controlled orbits.

Emma Henderson, investment banking heiress and apparently emerging witch, was having what could generously be called a magical tantrum.

“How has nobody else in the community noticed this?” Bruce asked, watching as a potted plant on the porch suddenly burst into full bloom.

“Mrs.

Pemberton’s been working containment spells all morning,” Julian explained.

“But she can’t hold them much longer, especially with the Blackthornes setting up surveillance equipment across the street.”

As if summoned by his words, Mrs.

Pemberton appeared from behind an ornamental hedge, her gardening gloves glowing faintly with residual magic.

“The girl’s power is wild, untrained, and getting stronger by the hour,” she said without preamble.

“Her parents’ refusal to acknowledge what’s happening is making it worse.

The magic has nowhere to go but out.”

“And the Blackthornes?” Mishka asked, though she dreaded the answer.

“Victoria’s been on her phone for the past hour, speaking to what sound like specialists.

Agnes has been setting up some kind of monitoring equipment in their front garden, disguised as landscaping.” Mrs.

Pemberton’s expression was grim.

“They know something supernatural is happening.

They just don’t know what yet.”